Page 11 of Love You Truly

“Felix stopped by again…” I say.

Mary’s face twists into a scowl. “That bloody cocksucker?” Her accent makes even those words sound charming. Mary detests Felix almost as much as I do. “Man responsible for you losing faith in love, bloke has no business stopping by,” she mutters.

She’s exaggerating.

Felix is the reason I’ll never trust my heart to make decisions for me again, but I haven’t lost faith in love. Not entirely. Just mostly.

Casting a look across the vast field of untended farmland that abuts the main house on our property, I see a flat expanse of dirt and wild greenery. At moments like these, I imagine what that farmland could be someday—acres of vineyards growing cabernet grapes and more acres of sauvignon blanc, all under the Autumn Lake Winery label. I envision a sea of staked vines growing in neat rows, the soil beneath them ruddy and dry.

“Fine. I’m not going to get any more work done at this hour anyway.” I haul a case of canned dog food out of the back of the Jeep, and Mary follows me, chattering all the while.

“Great. Can we go to that cowboy bar? I really liked it the last time we went…”

It’s a good choice, I decide. Understated, definitely not trendy. It’s the last place in town I’ll run into my ex.

CHAPTER 5

Mallory

A half hour later, we’re in a back booth at the Dark Horse, which Mary says reminds her of home. “I used to cook meat pies in a kitchen half that size,” she says, pointing at the kitchen, which she insisted on seeing the first time we came here.

“Like, meat in a pie? Or is it really something else like sweetbreads?” I can’t help wincing at the memory of my first awkward bite of that particular dish on a trip to England.

She laughs. “I take it you were one of those tourists who thought sweetbreads were a dessert, then?”

“Honest mistake. I was just a kid when we took a family trip to London, and my parents didn’t know any better, so they couldn’t warn me.”

She nods. “Meat pies are how they sound. Meat in a pastry dough.” She inhales a deep breath and closes her eyes. When she opens them, she scans the bar menu hopefully.

“You won’t find those here, I’m afraid. It’s pizza and wings. Basic bar food.”

“I’ll make do with some chips.” She shoves the menu across the table to me, but I slip it between the salt and pepper shakers and a bottle of ketchup on our dark wood table.

Taking a wary glance behind me, I survey the crowd. So far, so good. No sign of anyone I know, which is what I expected when we chose this place. The crowd is small. A few people play pool at the one table in back, and three guys sit at the bar watching a baseball game on the big screen TV. The easy beat of old-school rock plays in the background, and a steady hum of voices makes the place feel packed yet anonymous.

“You want a dark beer or a lager?” Mary asks, signaling to the bartender with a raised finger.

“Dark.”

Mary holds up a second finger. It didn’t take her long to get in tight with the owners of this pub and everyone who works here. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she’s angling to supplement her au pair salary with a few shifts at the bar, but she denies that she’s being anything other than friendly.

Unlike most of the bars around town, where visitors sample glasses of local wines and angle to spot celebrities, this place is homey and rustic. Some might even call it shabby.

I’m happy to sit with my back to the door and tune out everything but Mary.

A few of the other tables are occupied by couples or groups, and I notice no one is lined up to play darts. “One game,” I tell Mary, pushing my chair back.

“Hell yeah.” She trails behind me and swipes our two pints of beer from the server. She hands me mine and keeps moving to the chalkboard, where she writes our initials.

“There’s no point in keeping score. You’re a ringer.” Last time we played, she got six bullseyes and eventually conceded to playing with her left hand. Even then, she beat me.

“My town didn’t have much to do,” she explains, plucking the darts from where they stick out at awkward angles and holding them with the little blue flags facing my hand. “Here. You go first.”

I back into position behind the painted line on the scratched wood floor and focus on the board. Raising the dart in front of my eyes, I move my hand back and forth a few times, lining up my aim. Then I throw the dart and watch it sail straight into the pie shape above the six.

Mary marks my score on the chalkboard and I throw the next dart. Closer to the center, but not great. Mary marks an eight. The rest of my darts hit various places on the board. It’s a respectable first round for someone whose opponent didn’t grow up in a pub.

Backing away, I get ready for the drubbing that will occur in a matter of seconds.

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